Dead Pine Needles
by Just Look in the Mirror
Summary: Severus mourns the new death of the love of his life, Lily. Crippled with despair in his flat, he begins to admit to lethal defeat, until Dumbledore intervenes.


Intoxication became him. Bourbon and whiskey brimmed from head to toe, corrupted his veins, panged and warped his brain, lulled his aching heart. With bloodshot eyes Severus Snape saw squiggles among the darkness of his ever closed, soaked lids as he lay sprawled on his stomach on the old, dusty floorboards of his flat. Tall glass bottles bordered his sides. For the last eleven days he'd implored Death to take his hand. He'd abandoned the chore of nourishment. His limbs had never been stiffer. He hadn't gotten up off the floor since the night the single source of his bliss fell cold and limp.

Lily Potter, or Evans as he quite prefered to reminisce, had died unnecessarily. All she had to do to shift her fate was join him over James. She could have borne Severus' child. Had he impregnated her around the same time as James had, and had she still delivered on the thirty-first of July, the Dark Lord would have selected the Longbottoms, not his loyal follower's family. She'd be here now, with him. He'd hold her while she grieved her friends' Alice and Frank's brutal demise. Instead, though, circumstances vastly different, he drowned in a depression so deep he knew there'd be no chance of surfacing.

He reeked of the sweat and urine he'd allowed his worn, crinkled clothes to absorb. Pools of coagulated vomit around his space and the chunks of it in his tangled, greasy, flaky shoulder-length hair assaulted his nostrils harsher than his own odors. He felt and appeared hollowed in the middle, his digestive system well on vacation. The shallow breaths that wafted past his crooked, stained, yellowed teeth smelt of decay and the liquids that had alleviated yet impaired him. He no longer heard the long rumbles of his severely neglected stomach, nor the snivels and moans that emerged from the pits of his wretched soul but her voice, which was sweet and light to even to the most unkind of people.

Overgrown, jagged fingernails scratched below his breast, where his heart refused to stop beating. He'd made a mission out of digging up the annoying muscle and tearing it to shreds. That would catapult his soul through the Veil. His concerned mother had already confiscated his wand, each knife, fork, and sharp object of his days ago, then had the gall to advise that he move on and marry a nice lady of Slytherin or Ravenclaw House. Although he loved his mother dearly, he'd thrown her out of the flat in outraged hurt, warning her to keep the hell away. Eileen Snape had only experienced and understood the attention given by her miserable husband and his father, Tobias, who these days was, to their silent delight, dying of liver cancer in an intensive care ward neither bothered to mind or visit. This was what he deserved, Eileen had told Severus when Tobias was first diagnosed. In all his years of marriage and fatherhood, he'd abused most elements in his alcohol-ridden life, himself worse of all as it turned out, his liver poisoned, ruined, killing him slowly. The first smirk in over a fortnight flashed on Severus' dry, cracked lips. Let that bastard Tobias rot and scorch in hell. The day Severus would get his shaking hands on the Muggle newspaper's obituary accounting his death would be a bright one, if Severus lived to see it. It wasn't looking so, the way he was treating himself.

He'd scraped blood under his fingernails, which meant he was getting closer to the ticking lump of sorrowed coal behind his ribcage. The layers of muscle and tissue posed as a major hindrance, however; should prove a bitch to break through with desperate fingers alone. He paused in his futile suicide attempt. This method would take far too long. He could jump out the curtained window in the very room, but his fractured legs would stifle death, unless, of course, he fell headlong, to obliterate his cranium on the cement below. He nodded to himself. The dive would be quick and straight to the point, just as he'd always liked with every situation.

Mustering up the ounces of determination left, he positioned himself onto his side, the soreness permeating. In moments he arrived to the horrid realization that he was unable to get on his hands and knees. Even _crawling_ to the window was not an option, his advanced fragility pinning him to the spot mockingly.

He collapsed back into his original position, cursed at the ceiling again and again, a fresh, hot batch of tears flooding down his temples, continuing to wet his soggy scalp, puddling the floor. His voice was as weak as his body, a mere croak as it ascended from his rattling larynx. This level of torture surpassed that of any Cruciatus he'd been subjected to, not matter how prolonged.

"Damn you, Mother!" he hollered, _needing_ to shoot an Avada at himself, or needing her to do it for him, though she wouldn't dream of it.

Erasing his constant thoughts of Lily was a goal impossible to reach. She played in his mind, ethereal, intelligent, magnificent, reaping him of sleep. His longing to hold her tight in his arms, to kiss and smell and taste her was so great his sole solution to diminishing it was, as with everything else, death. She'd taken his heart at nine years old the moment he introduced the sight and sound of her to his consciousness on that playground on Spinner's End when she was showing her ornery, obstinate, terrible sister her gift of pure, authentic magic, the kind that derived from her blood. Lily was beautiful then. Her long silky hair was the color of sunlit dead pine needles, her smile bright, warm and neat, green eyes attentive and alluring, complexion a ghostly pale, haunting him day in and out. She'd blossomed into a stunning woman, summoning drool and googly eyes from every boy, including Slytherins, by their seventh year, once she was well estranged from Severus, head over heels in love with Potter.

The mere image of James Potter, his hectoring, imbecilic gang in tow, surged another load of bile up his esophagus, and Severus swallowed hard to push it all back down, his throat still burning from the last round of a few hours ago. Severus was baffled at to what feats James, with his vapid, capricious, downright irritating personal values, had conquered to obtain Lily, in mind, respect, body and spirit. Remus was no better, but uniting with him would have made far greater sense as at least he was near the top of their class, and he wasn't quite as crude as his mates. Out of Severus' observation, James must have changed his old behavior by intense proportions; somehow abandoned his inappropriate proclivities in exchange for a gentleman's modesty. Severus doubted the process was a breeze for him but when so wildly in love with someone you'll do anything for them, become anyone for them. That was what Severus should have done years earlier rather than go and brand the underside of his left forearm with the mark of the man who'd murdered her.

The Dark Lord was the main source to his burgeoning lachrymose and decline of self. Seeing as he'd just vanished that chilly, foggy Halloween night, Severus, as his most loyal servant, couldn't break the other man down into a convulsing stump, so the lack of fulfilling revenge was clenching Severus' fists so much that mini crescents nicked his palms in subconscious bouts.

Although he'd have sacrificed the Potter child and obviously Potter for her life in under a heartbeat had the decision been his, he couldn't help but admire her heroism and abandonment of self-preservation to ensure her son's final breath wouldn't be taken then and there and by the tip of the Dark Lord's wand, as declared by Albus Dumbledore. Severus would have resorted to the same for her, but no one else, probably not even his mother.

Lifting a hand above his tear and vomit-streaked unshaven face, he eyed the narrow blue connection of branches inside his wrist, which stood stark against his pasty skin. He pressed the thumb of that hand deep into the pad of his forefinger until blood drew, oozing down hot and burgundy past his palm and wrist. His crazed, womanly fingernails were sharp enough to do the job, he'd confirmed, poking at the edge of a particularly thick canal of veins. He didn't flinch or grimace, too enticed by the prospect of the afterlife, too wrecked and worthless to persist here, breathing, feeling, suffering.

A centimeter through, an ear-shattering crack sounded in the room, craning his neck towards the tattered black couch. He was dismayed to find his boss and mentor seated there, his long, wrinkled hands clasped in his lap, his calm expression overlooking Severus' lain form.

Severus snarled, "Leave me!"

"You're in no condition for that," Albus said, unmoving. If he could smell the air's profound musk he hid his disgust well.

"Please." Severus was one to avoid begging when possible, but he'd do what he could to rid his intruder. He glared burning black eyes up at him, though he knew it was nothing to fend the belated elderly wizard off with.

Albus withdrew his wand from an inner pocket of his elaborate purple, turquoise-swirled robe and aimed a Scourgify at Severus. Then he patted the torn, flat cushion beside him. "We should talk."

Severus shook his head hastily, turning over to face the cracked opposite wall. His pride and preference of keeping private matters to himself prevented his mouth from opening and spilling the basis of his deterioration. He'd respected Albus, even regarding him as a father figure, casting away all the appreciation he'd mustered out of great fear for Tobias at a very young age, replacing it with a confident, searing hatred. Despite where Albus lied in his book, Severus was solely after solitude, beyond wise suggestions, irreparable. He desired to go forgotten.

"I know of the gape lost love tears in your heart," Albus said. He swished his wand towards the small, dark window, thrusting the curtains apart so the heavy daylight could pour in. Severus squeezed his now stinging eyes shut, covering them with his arm. "However cavernous and forbidding, you can't surrender trying to fill it with light. Solace is not yet out of bounds, Severus."

"Mind your own damn business."

"My business goes wherever it is called upon. You are in dire need of my guidance."

"Bugger off!" Narrowing his watering, photosensitive eyes ahead on his dusty, cobweb-soled boots under the coffee table, he grabbed and chucked one behind him, missing his target by a yard.

"She wouldn't wish for you take this route, hm?"

"Does it matter anymore? She's gone!" His voice was hoarse, as though his throat were laced with chunks of coal.

"Only in a physical sense. Haven't our translucent lingering guests at Hogwarts shown us that there is indeed life after death?"

"She's not _here_ , you daft coot. To hear me, to see me. I can't touch her, nor can she me."

"Oh, but she can feel you, your anger, your penance."

"Well, if that is so, surely she doesn't give a damn, does she? We haven't been acquainted for six years."

"She cares," Albus countered gently, "as she understands your remorse and newfound true intentions."

"What, my intentions to kill myself?" he snorted.

"Your willingness to be a better man. The steps you'll take in such a direction."

Severus was positive he'd veered off the path to healing days ago, moments after cradling Lily's corpse on the sky-blue carpet of her son's bedroom. Shards of the roof scattered its expanse, the Potter boy wailing at the top of his lungs in his crib nearby. The path must have been warded by now, blocking a single toe from it, forcing his foot and self back towards hell.

"I am not a good man. Do not plan to see me evolve into one."

"You're twenty-one. I have faith."

"Need I flaunt my Dark Mark for you?" he hissed, peeling up his left arm's sleeve.

"Consider that a token of your development, gathered while partaking in wrong rather than right."

"You're only doing this because you can't bear to lose the one decent Potions teacher you'll ever come across."

"There are more seasoned, student-accustomed people available, as I'm sure you're aware, just as you are that it's your well-being I'm worried about."

"If you care for me, you'll respect my decision. You'll see to my cremation and dump my ashes in the Black Lake, or the pail in Hagrid's hut he uses for a loo. Wherever."

"It is too soon."

"It's not!" The unlit, half-melted candle on the coffee table bonked off Albus' head, thrown by mental willpower. Nonetheless, Albus' composure stayed intact, and he clucked his tongue in response to the outburst.

"You might not see her without making your amends. If you take your life, you'll proceed carrying your unresolved sins. You might be confined to a dimension where your misery would cycle on forever."

"I will here anyway."

"That's in your power. Your temperance is controllable. You may grieve for her for the coming years but what's the use in letting that destruct you to pieces? Why shouldn't her memory encourage you to one day flourish?"

Severus' skull and within pounded. He was so exhausted his whole scrawny body seemed fifty pounds larger than it was. He was on the verge of cramming cotton balls in his ears and kicking his unwanted visitor in the stomach until he excused himself with the booming crack of Disapparation. More than suicide at the moment he craved peace and quiet with his thoughts. The unasked for optimistic wisdom was thinning his patience to a strand, smoking his already steaming nerves. He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face against the floor, splintering his cheek. Albus wouldn't win. Severus was finished talking.

Silence thickened between them for the following half hour. Severus remained awake, counting the sticky droplets of blood that plopped on the floor from his partly gashed wrist until it clotted itself and slowly dried. Albus eyed him all the while with pity and hope that he'd manage to climb out of the murky, uncomfortable figurative trench he'd stumbled into, practically breaking his legs on the land.

When Albus' mother and sister died in his youth, and once his beard had started to gray, he lost his dark ex-lover Gellert to a cell in Azkaban, he'd succumb to depression with potency not too unlike Severus'. The difference with his was that he'd considered his fond assets which were worth living for, such as his ceaseless stash of lemon drops, companions, and responsibilities wherein he was relied upon before the virus of self-harm was able to plague his mind. Severus was still so young, incognizant of the person he truly was due to manifest in time. Though Albus reasoned telling him so would rouse further difficulties, the truth was that this shroud of suffocating darkness was but a phase, sure to lighten and pass, if only he'd give it the chance to approach.

"Remember the light, Severus. I suppose your version of it is her." Albus rose and knelt to lay a hand on Severus' back. "Allow her in. See if her memory and assurance that she's safe will nudge upwards the anchor of grave despair." He walked across the room, distancing himself by thirteen feet, and raised his wand. "I trust you won't do anything stupid in my depart."

The crack that ensued drew a sigh from Severus' lungs. His mingled relief and frustration strengthened his frown. As he gazed out the window his retinas had adjusted to, Lily dominated his musings again. They were fourteen and she'd told him their bond would never be severed. Through thick and thin, ugly, bad, and okay, they'd encounter nothing that could pull them apart. When they did, however, and Severus had selfishly picked wallowing in the dark arts over her when they were sixteen, she'd said that flowers bloom by themselves when their fellows of the patch have been plucked or begun wilting. She bid him luck on evading evil's grip, and promised to return for him when he'd grow up. Severus, in the sense she was referring to, hadn't matured into easily drifting from the black in favor of a white outlook on life, but maybe he was finally ready to concede to her simple wish. The Dark Lord nowhere for the time being, granting it should save him drastic consequence.

A few hours more reflection and contemplation, Severus had opted to cancel his meeting with Death. He looked into the dim, long untouched kitchen with almost nostalgic consideration.

 **A piece I wrote a couple years ago. Well, this is what I cook when exploring the darker regions of my imagination. I do believe canon Severus slipped into a semi-potent depression in the wake of Lily's death, so suicidal thoughts and behavior aren't totally out of the question in my eyes, although I've taken a fairly bleak, maybe graphic route here. I'd care to hear anyone's impression and overall feelings. Also, I know Albus and Gellert were not romantically involved in canon but I ship them and seeing as Albus was in love with Gellert in canon, I thought I'd use that to typify Albus' time of midlife wreck. I've made Albus a bit more intuitive than I think he would be in canon, sensing Severus' eager fumble towards death.**


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